


Paths Not Taken

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gigolas Week 2, M/M, change one thing, especially when its from the Galadriel, gimli doesn't always think with his brain, heroic legolas, hobbits are very sensible, listen to the advice you are given, sometimes, thranduil can be quite a good daddy, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Legolas actually listens & pays heed to the warning Galadriel sends him about the Sea (or possibly just looks at a map....). How does that change things?</p>
<p>Because also, after running all those miles across Rohan, you'd think one of them would stay with one hobbit. Really. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, elves are a bit cryptic for a straightforward dwarf-warrior to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paths Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, my elves are a bit - weird. About their hair....

“I would be a fool not to listen to the warning,” I say, “Aragorn – if you truly are intent on this path – I have spoken with those who will go with you – it will take me so near to the Sea, to the cry of gulls.” 

I stop, I wonder whether I am making the right choice – it will be hard to leave these two – almost, almost I feel they are my group – but they are not. They are not elves, they do not comb, I have no true bond with them – and as for these others, these Rangers of whom I know nothing, and of these Noldor I have heard many rumours, enough to know I could never comb with them – they are no group to me. 

“Aye,” the dwarf says, and I know I am deceiving myself – the thought of being apart from him hurts me, “aye, if the Lady sends one a message, it is as well to take heed.”

Aragorn nods, and turns away – and I am faced once again with the fact that I am really not very important in this great matter; one elf is not much loss.

“Don’t take it to heart,” my friend – and when did Gimli, son of Gloin, become my friend? – what, oh Ada, what would you say to hear me use the word – my friend says, “he has a lot on his mind, master elf. You take care of our one remaining hobbit – and I daresay I will see you again on some battlefield.”

I look at him, and oh I wish I could say something of what I feel – but I have no words – I am not truly sure what it is I feel, and so I manage only, “I will be looking for you, master dwarf.”

He nods, and then he too turns away.

I watch him go, and I wonder if I will be able to find myself again, to know who I am once more, regain my old certainties, now that he is gone.

I wonder again about the warning. I can only suppose she means that if I go to the Sea I will never be content again until I sail. I have never wished to sail – I may not often please Ada, but – but at least he did not leave me.

 

 

 

I find I am not myself even now.

Comforting though the steady flow of hobbit chatter is, Merry feels – small and light behind me on Arod.

I keep wondering with whom Gimli rides.

And whether they will keep him safe.

 

 

The path to Edoras is easy enough, and the welcome at our journey’s end is good.

I see the grief on the Lady Eowyn’s face as she speaks of Aragorn, of his path, and for the first time I feel real fear, real concern that – that all will perhaps not be well.

That I will look for him across the battlefield and he will not come.

No.

A journey through a cave.

Whatever lurks there, who could face it better than a dwarf?

He will be well, I will see him again – and he will doubtless barely have noticed I am gone.

But I think I recognise the fear in the Lady Eowyn’s heart. 

 

 

 

And so we ride out, Merry and I, among these horsemen, hastening to this battle.

He is a brave one, to dare so. The Rohirrim make no secret of their amusement. They cannot see what use he will be, how he will strike any blow from his perch. Their words make me think.

Merry and I talk, and I find this hobbit is more sensible than the others. This hobbit does indeed know how to ride – this is the hobbit, I remember, who said he knew something of boats and water. He admits to me that he has been worried by the words of Théoden King – that there may truly be no place for him in such a battle, a battle of horsemen. And I – I admit to him, that I am not truly one to fight on horseback, I am an archer for choice, and though I can use my knives – not from horseback. 

I am no truly royal Sindar to use and carry a sword, as Ada would be the first to say. 

I do not tell this hobbit that.

We think.

We talk, and we find a solution.

 

 

We practice.

It is very odd, to let another take control of the horse that bears me.

It is very odd to have to learn to manage reins and bridle – for my companion cannot – what is the phrase – “tack up” – that is beyond his reach.

It is very odd, to put my life in the hands of a hobbit.

But – when he sits in front of me – I miss my – my dear friend – less. And that helps steady me.

This hobbit is rather more skilled than I had expected.

And I – I find that he is small enough that to aim round him is no hard task.

This works well.

He is a good friend.

Why then, do I still find I wish for the company of another?

 

 

 

In our practicing, we find we roam alongside the column. We seem to be providing entertainment – and as ever, I find the irrepressible spirits of hobbits to be contagious.   
Merry has no thought of dignity, he has his own pride, but it is a pride in himself, not in how others might see him.

I envy him his confidence – and wonder if it is too late for me to learn to be like that.

There is one rider who does not smile, does not laugh. One who rides as though she has no hope of – anything much.

“I did not expect to see the Lady Eowyn ride out,” I say casually to Eomer, when he is alongside us, “I had been told that Men did not allow their women to fight.”

There is a silence.

Merry elbows me, hard.

“What?” I ask him, “I had been told that. I am sorry – I only wondered – “ but he is shaking his head now, and I fall silent.

Eomer looks angry.

I do not understand. Surely he knew?

Oh.

Perhaps he did not.

I feel my ears flush, as I realise what I may have done.

“Please,” I begin, “please – do not be – I may be mistaken – I – “

“Oh no, master elf,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, “No indeed, I am sure your eyes are not deceived. She is, I suppose, calling herself Dernhelm. And I can guess which Marshal she persuaded to allow her to join his eored. I will be having words with Elfhelm,” he pauses, “at least, I will if – if I have the opportunity.” He sighs, and then, “Do you know what it is to have a younger sister?” he asks.

Merry shifts in front of me,

“No, I do not,” he says, “but I know what it is to be responsible for Pippin.”

Eomer laughs, and his brow clears a little,

“Then perhaps, master holbytla, you and bright-eyes will do me the courtesy of keeping a watch on my sister? She will say she needs it not – and perhaps she is right – but I would be at ease if I had your words that you will stay by her side, as I cannot ask any other to do – for all others have their own comrades, their own duties?”

Merry reassures him, and I also agree – though indeed I see no reason for it – the Lady Eowyn does not look to me as one who needs protection – but, if it is merely to ease his mind, then what harm in it?

After he moves to speak to another of his men, I try to understand,

“So – is it that she should not be here?” I ask, “And – why are you responsible for Pippin?”

“I think it is against their custom in these days for women to ride out – they fight only in the last defence,” he sighs, “and there is no reason I am responsible for Pippin – except that I always have been. Would not your brothers – cousins – say the same of you?”

“I did not realise,” I say, “I thought – our women – we see little difference, save when they are actually carrying a child.” I am silent for a moment, thinking of warriors I have known, so brave, so strong – and wondering at the folly of Men that they would say they should have been ones to stay at home and sew. Then I hear the last of his words again, and I add, “No. I have no cousins. My brothers – my brothers were never ones to be responsible for me.”

“Not old enough?” he asks, and I laugh.

“Oh they were married with elflings before I was born,” I say, and then I realise what I have let myself in for, as he asks with all the interest any hobbit has, for names, ages, stories – and I have none. 

“But you must know,” he says, “you must know – they are your nieces and nephews – and so close in age – surely – you would have grown up together? You – are elves so different?”

“So it seems,” I say, and I am just glad I can hide behind that half-truth. I do not want to say – no. No, other elves are not. In other families, adult children will care for a younger one when parents cannot. 

But then, I do not know any other families where the youngest child is to blame.

Other elflings do not break their parents’ hearts, do not disappoint their Naneth so that she sails West, do not leave their Ada cold and unable to comb.

Other elves do not – do not long for a dwarf as I am finding I do for Gimli. 

And I do not even know what I would have from one who does not comb, does not sing.

 

 

 

As we approach the battle, we find that in all the reorganising, the confusion, it is easy enough to position ourselves close to Eowyn. 

Watching her as we ride forward, I have no idea why Eomer seems to wish us to keep an eye on her. In fact, I cannot but wonder if in truth he wishes her to watch over our hobbit. That seems more likely to me.

 

 

 

Our hobbit, though, proves himself more competent than I had hoped. With him at the reins, I need spare no thought for my Arod, and the battle – the battle feels almost more like a hunt, arrows flying from my bow, enemies falling.

Actually, this is rather a good way to fight. 

I miss the dancing, the footwork – but on a plain like this, with so many mounted enemies, it is perhaps more practical.

I wonder how Gimli will fare.

Do not think of him now, Legolas, concentrate.

And I do, arrows flying, the horse below me expertly steered by my hobbit – and, I realise, he is even keeping score of our kills.

 

 

 

And when the sky turns dark as the Lord of the Nazgul riding on his fell beast approaches overhead – I find my Arod and Merry between them give me a perfect shot. I stand on Arod, and I suspect that is a squeak of surprise from my hobbit, but he smothers it, and the hobbitness of him, the irrepressible spirit, makes me smile, reminds me of another who could always tease and make me laugh, conquering fear. 

I stand tall, as he always bid me stand tall, I aim, I am careful, but fast, no need to hesitate my prince, that is what he always said, shoot fast, shoot right. 

The creature seems to stop in the air, hang above us for an instant, and I seize my hobbit and leap from Arod, no time to think further.

Merry and I land and roll, and again I am grateful for the hobbitness of hobbits, as he laughs – how can he laugh – to see me knocked breathless. Concerned, I turn, and see that Arod – wise Arod – has taken our desertion as a signal to follow us. 

Then the beast falls to the ground, and we see it is dead, and even as it died, it thrashed, and has brought both Snowmane and Arod to the ground – but our Arod is luckier than Snowmane, Arod will rise again, Arod will be well – and how can I be thinking this, how can I be foolish enough to care for a horse at this moment? 

But I am, and I do, and I go to him, and crouch beside him, speaking words of comfort, of reassurance to him even as Merry follows me, thinking, I suppose, in his simple hobbit way, that I must know what I am doing, I must have a plan.

I do not.

But, although Snowmane has fallen, and rolled upon Théoden, although he is hurt near unto death, although the Witch-King approaches to gloat – for no fall can harm one such as he, bodiless as he is, at least there is no evil carrion-fed creature to fear.

Then it is that Eowyn stands before him, and defies him, for she will not leave her lord. Arod lies between us and her, and so it is that Merry and I are not noticed – but when the Lord of the Nazgul says to the Lady of the Rohirrim,

“No living Man may hinder me,” 

I look at her as she laughs and Merry and I once more understand each other’s thoughts. Eowyn may be no Man, but neither are we.

Then it is I recall the knife Merry bears – a sword to him – that it is a blade of Westernesse. And I recall tales I have heard, lore I have heard whispered – this blade may be the one that can break the spell that knits his unseen sinews to his will. 

“Your sword,” I whisper to him, “your sword is – is what you call magic – without you strike him first, none can injure him. It need not be a deadly blow, simply strike at his heel, at the vulnerable chink in his armour.”

He understands me, yet – yet he is terrified. As well he might be. 

However, hobbits are a courageous little race. He begins to drag himself forward, but I see he is already injured – and I cannot let him do this. 

“Take care of our one remaining hobbit,” my friend said to me. I take the knife from this one remaining hobbit, and as he looks in puzzlement, I aim, and throw.

The years of such games do not fail me.

The throw is enough to pierce, to injure, to make the Nazgul –lord stumble, and as he does, Eowyn plunges her sword into – into where he should have a face.

But even as he falls, I feel the faintness that has felled my hobbit companion come over me, and the last thing I can think to do is to see that Eowyn – we were, I remember supposed to be protecting Eowyn, and somewhere inside I laugh once more at the folly of men – Eowyn is at our side, that we are all together, that whoever finds one, finds all of us.

And I wonder whether my – my dear friend – will even look.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

I will see you on some battlefield – those were my last words to him.

Fuck.

Daft sodding creature – no doubt he is here somewhere, at least, I can’t think where the fuck else he might be – but – I can’t see him.

Bloody weird elf.

Singing somewhere I suppose.

Daresay he will turn up later.

For now, ah for now – there are necks enough to hew, axe work to do – and my new friend Halforth to impress.

I grin at the thought.

I think he is pretty impressed so far.

Still, never hurts.

Plenty more nights to come.

 

 

 

Battle over.

Battle won.

Aragorn grins at me, and nods in Halforth’s direction,

“I think if you were hoping for – comfort – this night, my friend, you have not far to seek,” he says, and – yes. I think he might well be right.

“Drink first,” I say, “ale, food, a pipe and a wash. Then – ah then we shall see.”

But it is as we are eating that the message comes – there are those who are in great need – some rigmarole about the rightful king being able to heal them – I don’t know. Sounds a load of bollocks to me.

But – Aragorn is not one to miss a chance to build up his legend. Seems he has learned a fair bit of healing in his time with bloody elves – so – off he goes.

I needn’t follow – but – thinking of elves – still no sign of that daft creature. And, for all I have no need, I can’t help wondering.

Be nice to know the hobbits are safe too.

 

 

 

There is a lot of bloody stupid fiddling around – washing – plants – I don’t bloody know. But at least I have found out where that pretty creature has got to.

Some bizarre alliance of him, Merry and the lady Eowyn has brought down the chief of the Nazgul – so the story goes. Well. Maybe.

Give the credit to the lady Eowyn, I’d say.

After all, I doubt she will be having the chance to win more. Not judging by the expression on her brother’s face. Don’t think he likes his little sister riding to war. 

Don’t think he approves of Aragorn preferring some elfwoman.

Well, you wouldn’t, would you?

Poor girl.

All very well, but then – and oh for fucks sake – Pippin will sit with Merry, Eomer with his sister – and then Gandalf and Aragorn look at me – who will sit with the elf?

Shit.

No, bugger that.

I had plans that included – well – a bloody good fuck. Halforth is no tease. He has made it quite clear that tonight – tonight we have the opportunity for more comfort.

Can’t some other poor sod go and sit with pretty elf? What about those two – Elrond’s sons? 

Apparently not.

Well, I think – I could go and see him. 

So I do.

He looks – crap.

Pale.

Tired.

Shit, Gimli, he is an elf, he always looks bloody pale. What the fuck are you on about?

He looks so young.

Not seen him with closed eyes before.

“Call him,” Aragorn says, “give him a reason to wake.” I look at him, and think – why don’t you bloody call him? But he smiles, inscrutably, and wanders off, kinging it all down the wards of this house of healing.

Don’t know quite what to do.

Or say.

I prod him a bit, but he doesn’t move.

“Fucks sake, elf,” I say, “wake up. Or I shall be in trouble.”

He doesn’t.

No-one to see, so I take his hand. Try and tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t matter.

But I know I wouldn’t touch him if he were awake, however pretty he is, because I know he wouldn’t want me to.

“Come on, Legolas,” I try, “wake up. And – and we shall see who was the victor in our little game in this battle.”

No. Still out.

Oh Durin’s cock, what is it with elves? Never bloody go to sleep, never stop singing when you are on the move – and now – now he is spark out, and quiet as – as the grave.

Shit, no.

The thought makes me shiver, and I take his hand again – but it is so cold.

Suddenly I remember his weird elf thing at Helm’s Deep. 

I reach out, and – I feel daft but – no-one can see so – I touch his ears, trying to remember how he did it, and I say, 

“Legolas, wake up,” gently, trying to pretend I don’t want to shake him, trying to be kind, “wake up you silly elf.”

Mahal be praised, he does.

A bit.

He opens his eyes, and sees me, I would swear he sees me, but then – then there is a stream of bloody elvish, and he – he holds my hands to his ears.

Fuck.

Bloody weird elf.

“Yes, yes,” I say, “no idea what any of that was, but – wake up. Now, by all accounts you have done rather well, and I daresay even an elf is hungry – so I will go and find someone to bring you food. Yes?”

He nods, and I get up.

“Very well, then,” I say, “and I will look in and see you tomorrow.”

But right now – I have other plans for my evening that don’t involve sitting by the bed of a sick elf.

However pretty he is, he does not want to fuck – he will not even when he is well – he is an elf. They don’t.

So why waste time here?

I am not one to go longing for something I can’t have.

Especially when there is one I clearly can have waiting for me.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%

 

 

 

The dream is dark and – and cold, and all the trees are gone – and I hear voices whispering the words I do not want to hear again. Voices saying things I know too well to be true, but – please – I do not want to be reminded.

I know I rarely please Ada. 

I know I failed Naneth in some way I do not understand.

I know my brothers bear me little love.

I do not need to be told again.

I wander through the mists, and I wonder – if there is any way out of here – for somehow I know this is not real – this is a seeming – sent by the lord of the Nazgul in his last moments – but I cannot find a way back to the world of light.

The longer I wander, the more I begin to understand – there is no way back unless someone wants me, calls me – but – the only ones who might – are far from here. And they are fighting, fighting for my Forest, my home, but it will fall, it will burn, the trees will burn, and my group, my warriors, all will die.

In the end, even Ada will die, and all will come to ruin.

Suddenly, as from far away, I feel – I feel a touch on my ears – and a voice – oh a voice I had no hopes of hearing again – calls me.

Something in me leaps, and I – I go to him.

“You came,” I say, “my Gimli – my – my most dear friend – my love – are you my love? – will you love me, let me love you? – you came for me. I was lost – and you found me. Hold me – comb me – please – I have been so cold, so alone.”

But I am not fully awake, and I speak in my own tongue.

It is probably a good thing, I tell myself, when once he has bustled off, as dwarves do, and I lie alone, trying to pretend I care not.

This is foolish.

He is a chance companion. He is not, and could not be your love. He means nothing to you, and you mean nothing to him. Pull yourself together, Legolas, act like the prince you are, eat this – broth, regain your strength and – and go home.

If that vision meant anything at all – it meant go home.

You did not go to the Sea, you did not wish to take the risk, so – go back to your Forest. You may be of use there, and if not – at least among your own kind there is nothing more to hurt than there has been this last Age.

There are those who wait for you there.

 

 

 

It is not easy to lie here, recuperating as they call it, knowing so many others have gone off to battle.

Not easy to be left behind.

Not easy for any of us.

Eowyn seems low indeed. Merry, in the way of his people, speculates that she needs to meet ‘a nice man, a suitable man, someone to put a smile on her face again.’

“But,” I say, quietly, for I know this is not something she would wish us to discuss, but – I need to understand, “does she not love Aragorn? How can you speak of her meeting another?”

He looks at me – and for one so young, it is a very knowing look, and I wonder again at the simple wisdom of hobbits where the heart is concerned – and says,

“She thought she loved him. I would say it was merely a passing fancy. Caused by the War, the stir of events, the darkness overhead and falling. Such things happen – it is not love. Not true love. True love – is like that of Sam for his Rosie. Friends for years, growing to find they are not complete apart. She will be thinking of him. I can only hope – and it may be a fool’s hope – that we can take him home to her. Hers is the harder part I think, to wait.” 

He looks at me again,

“That is real love. Not romantic folly, but loving one you know well.”

I can feel my ears colouring, and I wonder if he is telling me this with reason. Am I not as inscrutable as I would have wished?

“What of you though?” I ask, “Is there one who waits for you?”

He grins,

“I hope so. Though we have not spoken, yet – I hope she will be missing me as I her. And you, Legolas? In your wood, is there an elf who thinks of you?”

And suddenly I realise – yes. There is one, one who has always thought of me, one who – who will be missing me. One who – when I dreamed my group dead and dying – his fall hurt me most.

My heart lies in the Forest.

And I will go home.

 

 

 

We hear the great tidings, and Merry is off to the Fields of Cormallen, to rejoice with his compatriots.

“Will you come with me, Legolas? That the fellowship may be complete once more?” he asks.

I shake my head,

“No indeed,” I say, “the fellowship cannot be complete, not without Boromir – and my part in this is done. The quest is over, the task fulfilled, and I – I would go to my home. I will take a horse, and depart. This is the land of Men, this is the time of Men – there is nothing for me here.”

Again that knowing look from such a young hobbit.

“Nothing?” he asks, and I look away, “I heard there was talk of a journey to see caves and a forest, not to mention all the feasts and rejoicing.”

“Idle talk,” I say, “idle talk as happens at such times. No oath was taken, no definite arrangements made. As for feasts – I would rather wait and see whether the war in the north has left me cause for feasting or grief. I am not like you, I have no kinsmen, none of my folk here.”

He nods in understanding, and says he will carry my message to the new King, that the people of the Forest would have friendship – but must look to their own needs first.

And, I think, if any assume I have had tidings that call me away – then no harm is done. I would not stay here to make a fool of myself with some – what did he call it – passing fancy. For once in my life I will do as Ada would have me do.

I will go home.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

Can’t help but look – if Merry is here – then is that daft sodding elf come with him?

Legolas.

He has a name.

A name I find I have missed saying.

Missed the bloody singing.

Bit bored of rangers now.

Bit bored of Eomer’s horse-riders.

Oh, they are all very well for one night – but – I find I miss the – the – friendship that was growing between me and that bloody elf.

Shame he went off.

I suppose – not much point getting a warning from someone like the Lady if you don’t listen. Don’t know what the fuck she was talking to me about. Can only assume she – like other bloody elves – thinks dwarves need to be reminded which way to point their axes.

Bloody elves.

No sign of that elf.

No sign of Legolas.

Ah well.

Perhaps he is still not well. Hobbits do bounce back quickly.

 

 

No.

Merry comes to see me.

“Legolas has gone home,” he says, and I am silent. He looks at me, and then away, “He had no reason to stay,” he says, quietly, “Gimli, I don’t know but – he looked at Eowyn, heard me speak of the difference between love – real love – and – and a passing fancy – and he said he had no reason to stay. He went home.”

I shrug, I am not going to let any feelings show.

“Bloody elves, say one thing, do another,” I say, “no skin off my nose. Thank you for telling me, master hobbit, but don’t you worry. This dwarf needs no elves. Hobbits for pipeweed and laughter – and I will find anything else I need in this camp, I think. One elf is no loss.”

He nods slowly, and walks away.

I sit with my pipe for a bit. Quiet like.

So.

No journey to Fangorn. That is a good thing, surely.

No elf to drag round caves.

Not a bad thing, surely.

Hm. 

Remember what Father would say, Gimli. Never trust an elf. They are all pretty words, and nothing more.

Enjoy the fruits of victory, go home, get on with your life.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

Home.

The song of the trees welcomes me, and I listen, I hear the tidings, I hear the tale of elves fallen, elves hurt, elves fighting – elves victorious.

It is not many days, in elf-count, before I am at the Halls of my lord King.

I leave my horse with those whose knowledge is of horses, and I make my way to the throne room.

I kneel before him, and I wait.

He walks towards me, and I keep my eyes to the floor, awaiting the rebuke which is sure to come.

“Ion-nin,” he says, and a part of me that I thought dead glows inside at the acknowledgement, “you are returned. We thought there would be much to keep you away, much – feasting and foolishness among mortals.”

I dare raise my eyes, and I lick my lips, before saying,

“I – I stayed away only because I thought – the task needed doing. I would not have it said our realm failed to send someone. I – I thought that would be to your liking, your pride in our people is such. My lord King, in truth, I – I longed to return to your Forest.”

He – he smiles. I find I cannot remember when last I saw him smile.

“I am pleased to hear it,” he says – and I cannot remember when last I pleased him, “this Forest, this kingdom has been fighting for its survival, but – we have survived. We are still here, and that their prince is home will be another cause for celebration among my elves, I have no doubt.” 

Slowly, elegantly he reaches out a hand, and motions me to rise,

“Ion-nin, I say again, welcome home.” And he – he touches my ears. He stands, waiting, and then raises an eyebrow – and – and I understand he wishes me to – to touch his ears.

Hesitantly, greatly daring, I raise my hands in return, and do so. 

It is fleeting, he is not one to draw out such a moment – but – even so – my heart sings within me.

“Ada,” I say, and I do not know what to add. For me there is nothing else to add. Just – oh Ada. I have done something not ill in your eyes.

His hands drop, and mine also, then his eyes catch sight of something – or someone – behind me, and he sighs.

“I think there are others who wish to welcome you home,” he says, “your group – has suffered much, but there are still some of your reckless fools who would comb and be combed by you.” He makes a dismissing gesture with one hand, and turns away, but as I retreat, he adds, casually, as though it is of no importance, “I found while you were gone that there was something worse than having a son vowed to a Silvan – having a son I knew not where. If your minds are unchanged, you need not fear my anger. Your comb is your own, I am no peredhel.”

I gasp, for we – we had never spoken of such things – never even approached it in words – yet – yet indeed, my heart aches and I am in need of comfort. If he is still of the same mind as I had begun to hope. I feel myself flush, and I suppose would try to stammer thanks when my lord king speaks again, another lightning change of mood,

“We heard you had taken down the Witch King of Angmar. I will forgive much to one who enabled me to turn to that insufferable oaf Glorfindel, whom Elrond Peredhel foisted on us for months, and inform him that he may have killed a balrog, but it killed him also. My son killed the lord of the Nazgul, and lived to tell the tale – he was so outclassed.” He smiles, with vicious pleasure, “that, and watching him eat roast spider with a pleasant face, have been the only entertainments these months.”

I know I should point out that there were two others who fought bravely, who were as instrumental as I – but I have long learnt that Ada is not one to change his mind. Besides, he is unlikely to meet either, so what matters it?

I make some courteous answer, I know not what, because – because now my group – all that are left – so few, so few – there are but seven left of them – they surround me, there is eartouching to be done, reassurance to be made, greetings, and stories and – and then – they carry me off between them to our chamber, and combing and singing and more talking.

And much, much later – there is chance for two of us to slip away, to find a conspiratorial tree, and – for me to confess how lonely I have been.

“Never again, my prince” he says, his hands – oh at last – his hands in my hair, curling it round his fingers, and I had forgotten the way he looks at me, the way I feel when he does, he makes me feel I am the prince he calls me, he makes me strong and confident, “you need never feel so again. My beautiful Sindar prince, my pale gold, I would have come with you, another time I will.”

“Yes,” I say, and I look up into his eyes, I touch his ears, and then – then I hold out my comb, and I say the words I have prepared, “Caradhil Finbonaurion, I would offer you my comb, to hold from this day forth, until the ending of the world. Will you take it, will you exchange combs and vow with me?”

And although it is a question, I have never doubted his answer.

How could I?

I have been his prince so long, and – and before all went ill – before the prisoner escaped – we were so close, so near. He made it plain he waited only for my word – that he would wait forever rather than ask, lest I dare not refuse – he knows me so well. I lacked courage then – at least, I think perhaps – perhaps I might have found my words had there been time – but I was so afraid, so sure that it would be something Ada could not forgive. Yet now – now I have his permission, and – and I have found my words. I will not lose this chance.

For so long, we have moved towards this moment – and now – now it is here, and I feel – complete.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

Home.

Good to be back under this mountain, good to see my parents, friends, cousins, everyone again.

When they ask about my travelling companions – I can tell them all the truth. Men, hobbits, oh yes, there was an elf – but I didn’t have much to do with him. He went home. Injured. Or somesuch.

It isn’t long before I begin to be ready to move on again. 

Those caves are calling me.

There is a life’s work to be done there.

My cousin Droin will come with me. He has found love, and lost love – she died, they tell me, and I grieve for she was friend to me also – but Droin and I will have work to do. Dwarves need work, work gives us purpose.

Life will be busy.

I daresay if it is meant to be, Mahal will send me One to love soon enough.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

 

Life in the Forest goes on much as it has this long Age. Oh, there is some talk of land ceded to Lorien, but in fact that has been renegotiated – there is only a small, rather isolated plot.

I find to my surprise, that – that is where my brothers have chosen to live.

No-one seems clear why.

Or if they are, they do not tell me.

 

 

 

One Spring day – it may be the next year, or the one after – I care not – I am an elf, they are all alike to me, and to my combmate – Ada sends for me.

I go to him, and he – he looks different. I cannot say how, but something is changed in him.

“The Third Age is over,” he says, back towards me, pacing, “the Fourth Age begun. It is to be the Age of Men. You – you have had some dealings with Men. You have a friendship of sorts with this king of theirs.” I agree, hesitantly, wondering what has happened, why he speaks of this, and he turns to face me,

“I – I have ruled here for one Age. That is enough. These elves need someone new. I – I need to go. I will go to my wife, as I have long wished to do. I will sail at last. I leave you King in my place. If you have any sense, you will see that your brothers stay in Lorien – I gather they are having fun stirring up trouble there now that the Lady has left – they may well end up ruling. Let them, Celeborn was ever empty-headed; but your brothers and the Galadhrim deserve each other. I leave you to rule this wood – and Legolas, I am no fool, I know well how all your patrols were managed – and it was a good system.”

I blush, even as I hear more praise from him than I have ever heard before, to find that I understand his words – he means that Caradhil has ever been more the leader than I, yet never minded my having the name of it. I am lucky in him. I go to say some of this, but he makes a dismissive gesture.

“What you will do for an heir when – if – you wish to sail, I have no idea. Hope that one of your brothers’ descendents is wiser than they, I suppose. However, you need not think of that now.” He looks at me again, “Be well, rule well, ion-nin. I will tell your mother you – you turned out worthwhile in the end.”

I smile, and he touches my ears – I touch his – once more.

He leaves, looking happier than I have ever seen him. My last sight of him is as he rides away, taking those who wish to sail with him, golden as I have never seen him, alight with happiness, as joyful as any elf on his wedding day. 

My combmate and I watch him go, and turn away, and when I feel a pang of regret for the closeness we never shared, Ada and I – he holds me, and I know he is all I will ever need.

We rule the Forest, and we are content. Truly, my heart is here, here where it always has been.

And if I ever wonder – what would have happened had I made a different choice – well. I daresay many wonder that when they stare into the fire at night.

Romantic folly, Merry called it. A passing fancy. Exciting, perhaps, but folly nonetheless. It could only ever have ended in grief and loss. 

My heart does not truly long for the excitement, the – whatever it is that I wonder about sometimes. I do not even know what it is that I think I may have missed.

But I look up at these moments from the fire, and I see my combmate waiting for me to look at him once more, and I know there is nothing any dwarf could offer me.

Nothing as good and steady as this quiet, patient love which will endure until the ending of the world.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

 

My time is passing. I know it, I am an old dwarf now.

Fuck, yes, older than most.

Two hundred and sixty years now.

Been a good life.

These caves are a fucking good work to show.

This colony.

Cousin Droin and I have much to be proud of.

Still, can’t help but envy him a little.

Must be nice to know there is One waiting with Mahal, One watching all you do.

Always thought I would find someone, eventually.

Never happened.

Old and tired now.

I get out the box one more time – just nice to see them again – the beads I made for my One, so long ago, the year I came of age. Parents were so hopeful.

They would have loved grandchildren.

Talked of them a lot – until they didn’t.

Then there was a time they tried to say – that they would rather know – if there was One to me – whoever he was – or if I had lost my chance. Had to tell them – no.

There isn’t.

Never was.

Pretty beads.

Funny, really, I remember making them. Being so sure how they should look.

Every one a sapphire.

Most dwarves choose a mixture. Not me. I knew they should be like this.

Even had ideas for jewellery to complement them. Necklaces, bracelets, so on. Gold, mithril if I could afford it, more sapphires.

Don’t know who I thought would wear them.

Never happened.

Looking at them, I remember the words of the Lady, that day, when she spoke to me of ‘living gold and loving sapphires’. Never knew what she meant.

And again, ‘lay your axe to the right tree’.

Assumed she was talking about fighting – but now, now I wonder. Bloody elves, even she couldn’t just fucking well say it. 

Whatever it was.

But I wonder now – did she know where my One is – who they – he or she, I don’t know – who it was?

Wish I had had chance.

Tired now.

Old.

But just – just for a moment – I play with the beads, and – fuck – for a minute – I can see them – the way they should have been – in his hair.

Golden hair.

Golden the way no dwarf’s hair is golden.

Fuck.

Oh fuck Gimli.

And for a moment I remember touching his ears, waking him from the black sleep, remember his hands on mine, remember a stream of elvish – and I wonder what he said. But I – I was too busy thinking of – what was his name – I don’t know – some bloody ranger I wanted to fuck that night – and I left him.

Never saw him again.

Shit.

‘Lay thine axe to the right tree’. 

Or, as non-elves might say, ‘don’t go chasing off after a quick lay, look to the wood-elf’. Love the wood-elf.

And suddenly – it doesn’t seem a good life anymore.

The battles don’t mean anything.

The caves, the colony, building empty halls, halls for others’ children to run in, laws for others to live by, wealth for others to inherit.

Nights of – of what Gimli? 

Fucking.

Never falling in love.

Never having One to come home to, One to show your achievements to, One to praise you, comfort you, hold you.

It seems cold, and tawdry, and lonely.

A silly romantic part of me wonders even now – is it too late? Or could I – I don’t know – send him the beads? Tell him I’m sorry?

But then I remember how it was the talk of Laketown, of Dale, so many years ago.

How the elven-king had left, gone West, and in his place was – that daft elf.

And his – I don’t know what elves call it – but – his lover, I suppose.

So he is well enough.

But I – I am alone.

And I wonder what I can possibly say to Mahal, or to my parents, when I see them in his Halls. 

I didn’t listen. I didn’t see.

I walked away.

And I ache at the thought of what we could have been.


End file.
